


Dirigo

by lullabelle



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, abuse of highway safety features
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-10
Updated: 2010-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullabelle/pseuds/lullabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Ianto pass the time during a long car ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirigo

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by heddychaa.

A particularly violent bump jerks Ianto awake. At first he's disoriented; they're driving, but they're not in the SUV. He looks to his right for Jack, only to be greeted by a car window, and the trees beyond it whipping by.

Right. Driver on the left. He remembers where he is now.

“Sleep well?” Jack asks, gracing him with a lurid smirk.

Ianto follows Jack's gaze to find it leads directly to his own lap. Morning wood: it's not just for mornings. “Obviously,” he replies, his nonchalance only slightly undermined by his voice's post-sleep croak. The temperature of their commandeered vehicle, which had been steadily increasing since noon, has become stifling during the course of Ianto's nap. He reaches for the handle to crank his window down – the whole car is a testament to fine 90's engineering – only to find it broken. His window isn't going anywhere. “Where the hell did you find this thing?” he mutters.

Jack grins. “C'mon Ianto – _bench seats!_ ” His grin turns mischievous as he reaches one arm across the respectable distance between them to rest on the other man's knee, and then slide higher. “Might as well make the most of a bad situation.”

Ianto eyes the roaming hand skeptically. It's already hot and sticky inside their stolen mobile death trap, and as tempting as Jack can be, he isn't sure if he wants to get any hotter or stickier.

Jack sees the cogs turning in Ianto's head, and decides to tip the odds in his favor by moving his hand further up Ianto's leg, following his thigh up to the crease of his hip, and then down to cup him through his trousers. Ianto's already interested cock gives an enthusiastic twitch of approval, but Jack can see on his face that the big head still isn't totally sold on the idea of sweaty moving car sex.

Right. Time to take charge, then.

“Ianto,” he says, quiet but firm. The reaction from Ianto is instant – Jack's practiced this exact tone of voice, for him, because he knows exactly what it does, this delicate balance of affection and command. “Take off your tie. Slowly.”

He meets Jack's gaze with a measure of challenge, but it's perfunctory; his hands are already at his throat, unknotting the tie with slow pulls, letting the soft fabric slide between his fingers with each long tug. He keeps his eyes on Jack, while Jack's eyes flick between Ianto and the road as he runs one too-gentle finger along the length of Ianto's constrained erection.

When Ianto's tie hangs loose around his neck, Jack tells him, “Now the shirt.”

Ianto raises an eyebrow and Jack holds his gaze steadily, leaving no room for argument. Ianto isn't wearing anything under his dress shirt, and there is something decidedly lurid about driving through a foreign country bare-chested.

“There's been no one for miles,” Jack reassures him softly, and Ianto's hands are back at his throat, moving more quickly than he had with the tie, eager, though he's not sure for what exactly. It is an effort to keep himself from panting. The caress of Jack's thumb against him is maddening, and not nearly enough. Ianto's last button comes undone. He moves to undo his belt buckle.

“No,” Jack gently corrects, sending a shiver down Ianto's spine, directly into his cock. Jack Harkness: dick whisperer. “Just pull it free.”

Ianto moves his hand away and does as he's told, tugging his shirt free of his pants without undoing them. Jack's eyes have been trained on Ianto for far longer than they should have, something they're both reminded of when the vehicle drifts dangerously to the right and over the serrated rumble strip in the breakdown lane. The sudden noise and unexpected vibration make them both jump and Jack jerks the car back where it belongs.

Ianto chokes back a nervous laugh, which Jack ignores to tell him, “When we get to the hotel, I'm going to request a high floor.” His thumb is now moving in small circular motions. “And then I'm going to tear all your clothes off and fuck you against the window.” He increases the pressure against Ianto's cock just a little, which makes him groan, but it still isn't enough. He needs _friction._

“Jack,” he begs. “Pull over. _Need_ you.”

The look on Jack's face is enough to tell Ianto that he will not be getting his way today. Jack's on a sexual power trip, and he's just along for the ride, which is okay, really: the ride is always good.

“Spread your legs,” Jack commands. Ianto does as he is told, and when Jack pulls his hand away, the groan he lets out is equal parts arousal and disappointment. Jack shushes him and orders, “Grab your ankles.”

Ianto does so without questioning, folding himself in half until his belt buckle is digging uncomfortably into his stomach, the top of his head brushing the glove compartment. The sweat on his now-exposed back begins to cool. The only thing keeping this position from being stupid is the fact that it makes him feel so incredibly dirty. He bites back a moan.

“Now look at me.”

To the untrained eye, Jack would seem largely unaffected by the display going on in the seat next to him, but Ianto knows him well enough now to recognize that Jack is at least as turned on as he is. Jack reaches down and runs his hand through Ianto's slightly sweat-damp hair, and then over his shoulder before offering two fingers to his mouth. Ianto sucks them with as much enthusiasm as he would Jack's cock.

With a look that's pure mischief, Jack tilts the steering wheel to the right, deliberately across the rumble strip. Jack's fingers muffle the shout as Ianto jerks, the vibration rattling the junky car and every part of Ianto touching the seat – which, with his legs spread the way they are, is quite a bit of him. When Jack finally pulls the car back into lane, Ianto is panting and trying to regain some control, breath huffing through his nose and around Jack's knuckles.

“God, you're hot when you're like this. I love watching you come undone for me. What would you think if--” he jerks the car across the strip and back “--I had you--” again “--suck me--” _BZZZT_ “--as we went through the toll booths? Think we'd--” _BZZZT_ “--get a free ride?” Longer this time and Ianto is so, so close. He moans encouragement, wanting Jack to keep talking, touch him, pull over and drive into him, God, _anything_...

“I want you to come for me, Ianto,” Jack tells him, swerving again, and _staying_ perfectly on that thin strip of loud vibration, and the car rattles like the boot's full of tin cans, and it'd be making Ianto's teeth click if they weren't digging into Jack's fingers. It's almost too much, the vibration so intense it's almost pain, and it's that edge of discomfort which finally drives him over. He comes with a shout, pulling his teeth out of Jack's hand.

When he finally comes down, Jack is giving him a satisfied smirk. Ianto can feel himself blushing and hopes that Jack doesn't notice, that his embarrassment is indistinguishable from his post-orgasmic flush. Without sitting up, he maneuvers himself so that his head is resting against Jack's thigh. He _does_ like the bench seat. Jack wipes the saliva from his fingers into Ianto's hair, ignoring the little noise of protest. Ianto figures he has about two minutes before the trousers he's wearing become extremely uncomfortable.

He's about to say something about it, but Jack beats him to the punch. “Next rest stop we see, we'll stop and get you cleaned up.”

“That would be good.” He reaches for his shirt.

“Leave it off,” Jack tells him; a suggestion, this time, not an order. “It's hot in here.”

Ianto considers. It _is_ hot.

“And you'll blend in with the local color,” Jack encourages, a notion which is not encouraging at all. The shirt is definitely going back on.

Jack playfully jerks the wheel one more time over the serrated pavement on the side of the road, pulling back as Ianto removes his head from his lap.

Behind them, a state trooper turns on his blues.


End file.
